


Sixth Sense

by gothmcty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hemophobia, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, Whumptober, but when it comes to himself he gets overwhelmed really quickly, i hc peter as being able to handle blood/injuries/illness from his loved ones, tho he does get a little nervous taking care of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothmcty/pseuds/gothmcty
Summary: Peter refuses to let a little stomach bug ruin his training schedule with Mr. Stark. It turns out pushing himself through it might not have been the best idea.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	Sixth Sense

**Author's Note:**

> we love taking advantage of spidey senses for whump purposes!! pete’s an anxious teen, and you better believe his senses mistake illness for imminent danger.

“You look pale, kid.”

Peter continued to shift his gaze back and forth, glassy-eyeing his own reflection staring emptily back at him from the shining surface of the fridge. Tony’s words flowed into one ear and out of the other. He was too busy focusing his energy on remaining conscious to listen either way.

He’d been so excited to spend time with Mr. Stark and the rest of the team—a whole week to prove himself worthy of the Avengers. More importantly, he wanted to be worth all of the time and effort Tony had spent training him so far.

He was more than a little upset that he’d slept just under a couple hours that night before (having been woken up several times by sharp pains in his stomach) and now, just trying to struggle through breakfast was, apparently, already too much for him to handle. Attempting his usual web-slinging feats was probably a bad idea for today.

Tony waved a hand in front of him. Peter blinked.

 _Oh._ He forced a smile, one that quickly turned into a look of confusion. What the heck had Tony just said to him? Had he asked him a question?

“Yep, eggs are fine!” Peter shot back, his voice coming out curiously higher than usual in a failed attempt to make up for the dull ache settling in just behind his forehead. He hated how an almost immediate wave of intense nausea had washed over him at the mere thought of eating anything.

Tony raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world as if he were about to burst into laughter. The rather clueless grin plastered across Peter’s face slipped momentarily as a creeping, embarrassed heat flew across his cheeks. God, he was already disoriented enough without trying to _talk_ on top of it.

“Wait, I… wh… did you say something? I spaced out for a sec.”

Thankfully, only a small snort came from Tony in response as he shook his head incredulously and turned back to the counter to continue preparing breakfast.

“I said you looked pale,” Tony repeated, now busying himself with the stove. “If you’re coming down with something, we can always take a day off t—“

“ _No!_ ”

Tony looked at him, surprised at the urgency in his tone.

“Uh, sorry,” Peter corrected hoarsely, rubbing the back of his hand against his burning eyes. “I just meant that I’m fine. Probably need some time outside, is all.” Tony nodded in agreement, gesturing with his spatula.

“I forgot,” he added over his shoulder, pouring batter into a hot pan. “Teenagers don’t get enough sun, or sleep. Come to think of it,“ Tony scratched his head with the spatula’s handle in mock thought. “I must still be a teenager.”

He glanced back at Peter out of the corner of his eye, expecting… well, maybe not a laugh, but an eye-roll at the very least.

Peter, meanwhile, was too busy scrubbing through his already messy hair, then dragging his hands down his face mid-yawn in exhaustion, to notice he had even said anything.

“Are you, uh… you sure you’re feeling okay?” Tony asked carefully. He already felt out of his depth just bringing up the topic. He wasn’t some kind of model parental figure. He had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do if the kid felt a little off, anyway. Maybe it was just one of those weird teenager-in-the-morning-things.

“Nah. I mean, yes. Yeah. Yep, I feel perfect, Mr. Stark,” Peter responded, positively chipper, and nodding rather vehemently for emphasis despite his aching body. “Totally ready for whatever you have to throw at me today.” He flashed a confident smile. If anything, he _had_ to prove to his mentor that he was tough. He could handle a little random morning sickness.

Tony frowned to himself. Peter didn’t seem to possess a shred of his usual eager energy. His hair stuck up at every angle, as if he’d tossed and turned a lot in his sleep. His heavy eyes were drawn together in a squint under his tightened eyebrows, and he kept blinking as if the sunlight streaming in from the wide windows was too much for him. Every little movement of his arms and fidget in his legs was uncharacteristically sluggish. To cap it all, a slightly greenish tint seemed to have settled across today’s pallid features. Something was definitely off.

Still, he knew the kid well enough to tell that any word of concern would only potentially embarrass him. Maybe he’d just had another late night studying. That seemed like a typical Parker move.

“ ‘M just _fantastic_ …” Peter mumbled, once Tony had busied himself again, sinking back to slouch against the counter. He was grateful Mr. Stark couldn’t see him clutching his stomach from this angle, rubbing it uncomfortably in an attempt to calm that unsettling feeling of its contents sloshing around inside of him like a washing machine.

“I know these aren’t eggs, as you so violently requested of me,” Tony called over sarcastically from the stove. “But some food will get your color back. It’s kinda like you have a hangover, actually. Trust me, I’d know.”

Peter, meanwhile, had barely stirred in response, back to maintaining his measured stare at the nearest kitchen appliance. His stomach had started up a downright uncomfortable gurgling noise now, bubbling in protest at the smell of the pancakes now wafting through the room.

Tony set a plate stacked with food down in front of him and Peter flinched lightly with what was probably an audible gulp at the flurry of movement. Reluctantly, he focused on picking up his knife and fork without shaking too much. The metal still scraped far too loudly against the plate, making him wince at the noise. Each small bite he brought up to his barely opened mouth was a chore, something Tony immediately noticed.

“Aw, c’mon, kid. I know I’m no cook, but they can’t be that bad.”

Peter managed a smile that came across as more of a pained grimace.

“It tastes— _hhrmf_ —“ Peter was forced to suddenly swallow a mouthful of food that stuck like a rock in his throat, “—it tastes great, Mr. Stark,” He gasped, nearly choking around the lump. He forced a few more bites down before he realized it was doing no favors for his stomach, now growling in what he figured was _not_ hunger. He was flooded with a sudden sense of horror.

“Hey, whoa there. Earth to Spider-Man,” Tony said, perhaps a little too suddenly, setting down a glass of orange juice and waving a hand in front of his listless face. Peter jumped violently at the obnoxiously loud sound of the glass hitting the counter.

His already unsteady hand slipped out from under his chin and knocked the glass of juice over. In one quick _thwip_ of his wrist, he made a mad grab to save it, but only succeeded in knocking it farther away across the table until it skidded down to shatter against the kitchen floor. The noise, at least, seemed to have stirred Peter out of his reverie. Shaking his pounding head as if to clear it further, he immediately spewed apologies, kneeling down onto the hard tile to survey the damage.

“I’m sorry, oh man, I—”

He had moved much too instinctually before he realized that it was a horrible idea given how disgusting his stomach felt. Leaning back slightly, Peter cleared his throat, pushing back the gathering tightness forming there.

“I’m _so sorry,_ Mr. Stark, I don’t know what happened, I just…” He flailed his arms wildly. That image sent Tony laughing as he too knelt to clean up the shards of glass.

“It’s okay, really, don’t worry about it.” Tony suppressed another chuckle. “I hated this floor. I needed an excuse to throw a glass against it one of these days.”

Peter shakily exhaled. Hovering over Tony didn’t help either, especially as the room seemed to be tilting unsteadily around him. He felt even physically worse now, if that were possible, as if the adrenaline from the moment had tied his intestines up into tight little knots. His face still burned, too, even though his embarrassment had passed. He swallowed thickly before collapsing back onto the stool.

“Y’know, I still remember when my dad ripped me a new one just for breaking a plate as a kid. Granted, it was an ugly plate, and sure, I did hate that asshole neighbor’s son, but— _ah_ , shit.” His anecdote was cut short as he swore.

Peter first smelt rather than saw what had caused Tony’s reaction. He had reappeared over the countertop, examining a small, thin slice across the side of his palm. Peter’s stomach lurched dangerously. He recognized a sinisterly familiar acidic burn in the back of his throat.

“Here, let me—“ He suppressed a dangerous burp that threatened to bring up his recently swallowed meal. “Let me get the rest,” Peter spluttered, fighting back the urge to panic. “You should—” He trailed off again, this time hiding a gag behind his hand. “You should get a bandaid, Mr. Stark. I got this.” Kneeling back to the ground had the tile floor spiraling uncontrollably in his line of sight. He swallowed back the saliva that flooded freely into his mouth, muffling a groan at how disgusting the action felt deep within his gut.

Fighting through the haze to grab blindly at the glass proved to be a mistake as a slick pain shot across Peter’s own forearm. A piece of glass had grazed the exposed skin there, leaving a slight gash that shone bright red with fresh blood.

Peter’s vision faltered at the sight of his arm.

His fear of blood was always the worst in the middle of a fight, when he had to force that day’s lunch back down in order to protect his team, or risk being sick all over the enemy (and himself). Here, exposed in the comfort of the kitchen, no imminent danger in sight, presented a challenge all its own. He had been feeling ill enough already, but _that_ particular sight was the tipping point.

He could practically taste the tangy iron of his own blood in his mouth.

Peter’s stomach muscles contracted and forced a harsh gag past his lips. He doubled over on the ground, fighting the urge to convulse forward and promptly vomit across the floor.

Tony was asking him what was wrong, he could dimly hear. He opened his mouth instinctively to respond and immediately regretted it. He burped wetly and clapped a hand over his mouth, a mortified expression on his face, catching his stomach’s contents into his hand.

“I’m really— _hleeah, really_ sorry, Mr. Stark, I think I’m gonna—“ Peter’s hands flew to his mouth. “I think I’m gonna p… puke.”

Staggering up to his feet, he pushed away from his stool and stumbled over to the trash can. He gagged once more, the lack of food in his stomach making his throat burn with bile. He was forced down to his knees as the first proper heave wrenched its way through his body. A whine tore out of his mouth as his insides spasmed again. This time his efforts brought something up, sloshing wetly against the side of the can. Finally, in some sick way of relief from his dry, painful heaving, he spewed more disgusting chunks up from his stomach and into the can.

Tony was there in an instant, surprisingly calm, his uninjured hand sympathetically settled on Peter’s shoulder as he lurched violently forward. When the retching had subsided and Peter had spit away the sick, he slumped back against the trash can, completely spent. Tony paused for a millisecond.

“Would you like your intestines back now, or in a doggy bag later, Mr. Parker?”

Peter giggled despite himself, quickly cutting it off into a groan and clutching his sore stomach. Another lurching gurgle threatened his bloated abdomen.

“Can we change the subject?” He moaned, seeming to think better of risking another incident.

“But honestly, kid, _jesus._ Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Tony added more seriously now, kneeling down to Peter’s level, outright ignoring how much of a mess he was.

“Was just trying to be like you,” Peter sniffed miserably. “You’d fight through it.”

Tony tried to ignore the sinking feeling he felt in the pit of his own stomach. Maybe he was coming down with the same bug Peter had.

_The last thing you want to be is someone like me._

Tony forced a laugh all too quickly.

“Hey, I’ve had more than a few _experiences_ myself, believe it or not. I’m talking full-on, projectile vomiting. Spewed some serious chunks back in my day. It’s a good thing I don’t drink anymore, right?”

“Right,” Peter cracked a grin at the joke. “You’d never.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up, Pete,” Tony added gently, helping Peter to his feet and supporting his weight as he leaned weakly against him.

“I, uh. I made a mess.”

Tony waved his hand.

“I’ll get Dum-E on it. Besides,” He waved his still mildly injured hand. “It looks like we’ve both got our first battle injuries of the day to deal with. And then…” He studied him for a moment. Peter Parker looked every bit the part of a sick and miserable kid, with his sad puppy eyes ringed with shadows, a sweaty mop of hair, and that morning’s attempt at breakfast splattered across his pajama shirt.

“The Amazing Spider-Man is taking the rest of the week off for some major rest.”


End file.
